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Jemima craned her neck to peer out of the little window in the phone shack, but her father was nowhere in sight. She closed her eyes and drummed one foot nervously against the wall.
The phone rang and rang. Six times, seven times, eight. No one was answering.
The sudden click of the receiver made Jemima’s heart jump up into her throat, and she almost dropped the phone when a voice on the other end said, cheerfully:
“It’s a beautiful morning at Uncle Bob’s Amish Motel. My name is Stessily. How can I help you today?”
Jemima swallowed hard, and forced herself to answer: “Good – good morning, Stessily. I – I’m calling for a Mr. – a Mr. Brad Williams. Is he in?”
“Hmm, let me see.” There was a tapping sound on the other end. “Brad Williams. Oh – oh, I’m sorry, miss. It looks like he just checked out this morning. But it was only a few minutes ago – if you can wait, I’ll see if he’s still here.”
“Thank you,” Jemima replied faintly. She hardly knew what to hope for – that she would catch the crazy Englischer, or that he’d be gone forever.
She had fought herself for days, had prayed earnestly, and had tried to look at the thing from every angle. And in the end she had just decided to call the Englischer, and pray that somehow, everything worked out in the end.
Not that it was likely to work out.
She could hear the girl’s voice faintly in the background, calling. “Mr. Williams – Mr. Williams!” There was unintelligible discussion, and within seconds, loud fumbling on the other end. Then, suddenly, the voice she had learned to dread:
“Miss King?”
Jemima bit her lip in irritation. She’d caught the Englischer. Just her luck!
“Yes.”
There was a small pause. “Thank you for calling back,” he said quietly. To her intense relief, and for once, he sounded almost...sane.
“I know that couldn’t have been easy for you. And I promise, nothing – unprofessional – will ever happen again.” There was a sound like a deep breath on the other end of the line.
“Now. How can I help you?”
Jemima’s heart was pounding, and the little shack felt hot – like it was closing in on her.
“You-you said that I needed to sign some papers,” she said evenly.
“Yes, you must give the auction house written permission to sell the letter.”
“Will you send them to me in the mail?”
“I can, if you like.”
Jemima nodded. “Yes.”
There was more fumbling. “If you’ll give me your address...”
Jemima recited the information with her eyes squeezed shut. In spite of little Adam Yoder, and the preacher’s message, she had the awful feeling that she was doing something wrong somehow, and that it was going to blow up on her.
That feeling intensified when the reporter added: “And once Brinkley’s has the signed papers, they can prepare for the auction. An auction is always very exciting, and this one – well, it’ll be historic. One in a million.”
There was another pause, and he added: “It’d be a shame to miss it.”
Jemima shook her head, and said, in a strangled voice: “I will only sign the papers. I can’t go to any auction!”
The tone of the reporter’s voice was suggestive of a shrug. “Why not?”
Jemima pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. She sputtered: “You-you don’t know anything about Amish people, about what we believe!” she cried, and slammed the phone down on the hook. Then she gathered her skirts and ran back up the hill, but not to hide inside the house.
To run into the barn, climb up into the loft, and curl up in the shadows, and be upset and confused – again.
Brad Williams heard the click on the other end of the line, and handed the receiver back to the grinning receptionist.
He grinned back, crookedly, gathered the shreds of his dignity about him, and limped back out to the truck.
But when he closed the door behind him, he just leaned his head against the rim of the wheel. There was only one thought pounding in his brain: She called back. She called back. She called back.
He just sat there, basking in his absurd joy. Because he was no longer ruined. He was no longer even on probation. He had his job and future back, and he still had a toehold on the story of the year.
The Duchess had called him back.
He flipped the knob on the radio and turned the volume up to blasting, beat his palms on the wheel, and sang at the top of his lungs like a lunatic all the way back to his apartment.
Once he was there, he flopped down on his couch with a bottle of soda in one hand and the phone in the other. Since the Ledger was springing for the sale fees, and had a hand in the negotiations, he was going to have to light a fire under Dapper Dwayne and get all this stuff fast tracked: the contract, the insurance forms, the commission agreements for the auction house, all the fine print.
He punched the necessary numbers on his phone, but to Brad’s annoyance, the lawyer was out; he could only get his voicemail. But he was determined to get the show on the road as fast as humanly possible. It could take Brinkley’s months to get such a huge auction advertised and scheduled.
And in the meantime, he had to be busy as well, keeping the lines of communication open between him and Jemima, so that when the time came, she’d maybe agree to attend the auction.
He already knew how he was going to do it. He wouldn’t send her everything at once. He’d take her one form at a time, and deliver them himself. He was sure he could come up with some excuse that was at least plausible.
That would give him time to establish rapport, and hopefully, trust. Once that groundwork was laid, then he could bring up the subject of the article – and the photo.
What had she said – something like: “You don’t understand what the Amish believe”?
He sipped his drink. It was a fair enough criticism – it was true. Maybe if he learned a little more, he could couch his requests in a way that would make the Duchess more likely to say yes.
Maybe even to requests that had nothing to do with letters or a million dollars or auctions.
He punched a few buttons on his phone and said: “Amish religion.”
The little screen winked to life and pulled up a long list of links. Brad punched another button, took a long draught of his soda, and began to read.
